


The art of self-sacrifice

by foreveryoungins



Series: A transformation of sacrifice [1]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Artist AU, Depression, M/M, Social Anxiety
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-30
Updated: 2015-08-30
Packaged: 2018-04-18 01:01:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4686311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foreveryoungins/pseuds/foreveryoungins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“The progress of an artist is a continual self-sacrifice, a continual extinction of personality.”</p><p>  <em>-T.S. Eliot</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	The art of self-sacrifice

**Author's Note:**

> something i revisited for the umpteenth time. just SOMETHING to try and get out of this slump
> 
> Edit: I posted this 8/13/15, but I revisited it a year later and rewrote it. If you're interested in seeing version two, click the second work in the series.

“You can’t keep doing this to yourself, Kenma,” Kuroo grabbed his arm.

Kenma pulled out of his grip, continuing to work on the painting.

Kuroo snatched the brush from his hand, “Kenma, are you even listening to me?”

He nodded silently.

“Then talk to me. Tell me why you do this,” Kuroo dropped his face in his hands, “Kenma, _please._ ”

Kuroo felt a hand rest on his shoulder. He looked up, Kenma still staring at the muddle of blacks and blues on the canvas, faint speckles of red hid themselves throughout.

“I’ll be patient,” Kuroo gave back the paint brush, sighing, “What’s this one about?”

“...self portrait..” Kenma answered softly, the first, and only, words he spoke that day.

\--------------------

Critics gawked at the display, words rolling off their tongues like ‘finest work yet’ and ‘you really see the emotion in each stroke

Kenma and Kuroo watched from the farthest reaches of the room, distanced from the crowd.

“They really like it this time,” Kuroo glanced down to Kenma.

Kenma only blinked.

“I like it too.”

This caught his attention.

“I don’t think it’s an accurate self portrayal, though.”

\--------------------

Kenma blinked away the tears that caught on Kuroo’s chest.

“You’re allowed to cry, Kenma,” Kuroo rubbed soothing circles into his back.

Kenma shook his head.

Kuroo tucked him closer, fingers running through blond strands, “It’s really hard to sit through this. It scares me.”

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“You don’t need to apologize, Kenma. This isn’t you.”

\--------------------

Kuroo looked over Kenma’s shoulder, “What’s it this time?”

“Crowded by Nothing,” Kenma tilted his head at the unfinished image of a figure surrounded by empty space. Sleeves rolled up, he scratched at the skin.

“Care to explain?”

Kenma opened his mouth, but hesitated.

“It’s okay,” Kuroo squeezed his shoulder, “Don’t worry about it.” 

He shook his head, hair falling in front of his eyes.

“I know it’s hard for you, Kenma. I understand.”

His face lurched up, “It’s… um- it’s how I feel.”

Thick silence filled the air between them.

“Thank you,” Kuroo finally spoke.

Kenma returned to hiding his face behind a sheet of hair.

Kuroo pressed his lips to the top of his head, “Thank you.”

\--------------------

“You’re on a roll, Kenma-san.”

Potential buyers swarmed his newest piece.

“Your paintings have always been popular, but the most recent few have been absolutely adored,” the energetic man towered over Kenma. “What are you doing different?”

Unsettled by the sudden closeness, Kenma stepped back.

“ _That’s_ a secret,” a familiar voice interjected.

The man glared above Kenma, “I was asking Kenma-san, not you.”

Kuroo stepped in front and chuckled, “That’s funny. You see, I’m kind of his body guard, and I don’t allow giants with no sense of personal space near him. So you’ll have to answer to me.”

The man looked offended as he stormed off, nearly tripping over his gangly legs.

“Sorry I’m late, Kenma.” Kuroo smiled crookedly, “But I think I scared off potential money.”

Kenma snickered into his hand.

“Is that a laugh I hear?” Kuroo leaned towards Kenma’s face.

Kenma tried to stifle it, his ears bright pink.

“It is, huh?” Kuroo poked his side, “Cute.”

His whole face heated as he buried it in Kuroo’s sweatshirt.

\--------------------

Kuroo wiped the floor silently while Kenma curled in on himself in the corner.

After cleaning the mess of spilled paint, Kuroo crouched in front of Kenma, “I’m not mad at you.”

No response.

“But I’d like to know what led you to this.”

Silence.

Kuroo shook his shoulder, “Kenma, why did you destroy the painting you were working on?”

Nothing.

“Kenma.”

A quiet voice came from behind trembling knees, “I didn’t think you’d like it.”

Kuroo’s eyes went wide. He sat on the floor in front of Kenma.

“Why would you think that?”

Kenma’s shoulders shook.

“I always like your paintings. Why wouldn’t I like this one?”

His shoulders continued to shake.

Kuroo took a deep breath, wrapping his arms around Kenma, “This is about more than the painting, isn’t it?”

Kenma nodded.

\--------------------

On the floor, Kenma and Kuroo lay side by side, connected by an earbud of shared headphones. Kenma quietly hummed along to the classical piece.

“I feel like I’m losing you.”

The humming stopped.

“To your art, I mean. Like every one of your paintings takes a part of you with it.”

Kenma continued to stare at the ceiling. 

“Kenma?” Kuroo paused the song.

“I’m not going to stop painting if that’s what you mean.”

“It’s not. I just want you to stop letting your paintings steal you away.” Kuroo drew in a shaky breath, “I don’t want to lose you.”

\--------------------

Kuroo banged on the door, “Kenma, open up.”

No response.

“You hardly ever lock your door,” he squinted through the peephole. “You’re scaring me.”

An hour later the door clicked open, accompanied by a light pattering of scurrying feet.

Startled out of his daze, Kuroo stepped in. His eyes scoured the apartment for any sign of Kenma. Once in the main room, he found a canvas on the floor. It looked fresh, the wet strokes a deep red, while other parts dried crusty brown.

Kuroo’s chest clenched, “Kenma…” He frantically searched the apartment, looking high and low, anywhere that he could be. “Kenma! Kenma, where are you?”

Kuroo opened the bathroom to the sight of Kenma pressing a towel, soaked crimson, to his nose. He glanced at Kuroo.

“Oh my god,” Kuroo fell to his knees, wrapping his arms around Kenma.

Kenma tried to wriggle free, “Kuro, stop. You’ll get nose blood on you.”

He held tighter, “I saw the canvas, and the blood. Your door was locked.” Tears dropped onto Kenma’s shoulder, “I was so scared, Kenma. I thought you…”

\--------------------

A critic leaned over to Kuroo, “Where did he come up with this one? It’s…um...interesting.”

Kuroo laughed, patting Kenma’s head, “He had a nosebleed.”

The woman looked nauseated as she walked away.

“I guess it’s not her thing,” Kuroo nudged Kenma’s side. “But, hey, it’s pretty damn creative.”

The corners of Kenma’s mouth upturned.

“I like it. Plus, you actually seem happy about this one, Kenma.”

Kenma spoke quietly, “I am.”

\--------------------

“I don’t understand. You made so much progress. You were finally opening up again,” Kuroo rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands. “You acted _happy_. Tell me, was it all an act?”

Kenma sat in a puddle of paint and torn canvasses, “I didn’t want you to worry.”

“Kenma, my God. I can handle the depression. I can handle you closing off. But I can’t handle the lies, the fake smiles. Pretending to be happy for my sake hurts more than watching you be sad.”

“Are you saying that I hurt you?” Kenma mumbled from behind a curtain of hair.

The front door slammed shut, leaving Kenma alone amongst the ruin.

It wasn’t until three days later that Kuroo returned, entering through the unlocked front door to find the room still left in a dilapidated state.

“Kenma?” Kuroo called softly.

As expected, no reply. Kuroo quietly searched the apartment, with no signs of Kenma, until reaching the bedroom. Inside was a lump of covers, shifting slightly with the breath of a body underneath.

Kuroo walked to the bed, but kept his space, “I’m sorry that I left like that the other day.”

The comforter rustled.

“I shouldn’t have acted that way. It’s not fair for me to hurt you like that.” Kuroo shook his head, “I don’t deserve you, Kenma.”

An eye peeked out from the corner.

Kuroo’s voice cracked, “I’m so sorry.”

The comforter was tossed to the side. Kenma sat up, golden eyes flickering behind greasy, blond hair.

“Oh, um- hi,” Kuroo tugged on the end of his sleeve.

“You think you hurt me?”

Kuroo’s eyebrows furrowed together, “Well, yeah. I treated you like shit. I should know better.”

Kenma reached out for Kuroo.

“I’m sorry,” Kuroo wrapped him in a hug.

Kenma shook his head.

“What is it, Kenma?”

“I thought you left me. I tried to ask, but you left. I thought I hurt you.”

“Shit, I’m so blind,” Kuroo squeezed him closer. “You’ve never hurt me. I don’t think you ever will.”

Kuroo rested his chin on top of Kenma’s matted mess of hair, “You were in bed the whole three days.” It wasn’t a question.

Kenma tensed up.

“Why don’t we get you cleaned up.”

\--------------------

Showers between Kenma and Kuroo were not what you would expect. Yes, intimate, but in a different way. They were _emotionally_ intimate, not physical.

It wasn’t often that Kenma agreed to these. Today was different though. They hadn’t seen each other for a whole three days, longer than any time apart in their 12 years of friendship.

The warm stream of water plastered Kuroo’s outrageous hair to his head while he massaged shampoo into Kenma’s hair. Kenma’s eyes closed and he leaned back into Kuroo’s touch.

A simple shower said a lot more than any words could. So that’s what they did. When rough times called for communication or connection, they showered. Expressed their feelings through massaged scalps and lazy hugs under shower steam. 

And it worked. Their problems washed down the drain alongside shampoo bubbles and the day’s grime.

\--------------------

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

He set his mouth in a resolute line.

Kuroo grabbed his hand and led them to out to the sidewalk.

Kenma tensed as he entered the flood of people. His grip on Kuroo’s hand tightened.

“You can do this.”

Kenma trudged forward, leading the way to a mystery spot. His breathing was heavy, fingers shaking and clammy.

“Where are we going, Kenma?”

No reply.

Kuroo smiled, “Ah, a surprise.”

It took another five minutes of navigating crowds to arrive at their destination. 

“Lattes. My treat,” Kenma mumbled bluntly.

“How did you know?” Kuroo looked at the cafe sign with fondness.

“You mentioned them making the best lattes in all of Tokyo once,” Kenma led them to a table in the farthest corner of the room, away from the early morning rush.

Kuroo sat in a cushioned seat, “Well, yeah. But that was years ago. I can’t believe you remembered that.” He looked at Kenma’s tense shoulders, “I’ll go order the lattes.”

“Wait, Kuro.”

A light tug on the hood of his jacket stopped him.

“I said they were my treat,” Kenma nudged him to sit back down while he nervously approached the counter.

Kuroo watched the determination in Kenma’s eyes focus as the cashier took his order. In all honesty, Kenma looked awkward, tense, but Kuroo felt something greater than pride as he watched the exchange.

A few minutes passed and Kenma returned with the coffees.

“Kenma, I’m so-”

Kenma cut him off, “Don’t say something sappy.”

\--------------------

This time, Kuroo and Kenma stood near the new painting on display.

Kuroo nudged his side, “I am so proud of you.”

Kenma glanced back at the canvas bursting with color, “Thank you.”


End file.
